Toss the Bouquet (5 page)

“Oh. Well. Good.” The fact that she could call Kathy for advice instead of him didn't sit right, but that was absurd. Kathy knew the business inside out. She was the assistant manager. She'd loved his mother and she loved bridal. Why wouldn't Tara call her?

“See ya.”

“Right.” He walked out the door, heard her click the lock behind him, and struggled with his feelings as he trudged to the parking garage for his car.

He wanted to stay.

You do not.

Greg tucked his chin lower into the neck of his jacket and recognized the silliness of his thoughts. There was nothing he could do there. He had an afternoon of football planned, and the guys were waiting. He'd anticipated this respite all week long. His fantasy team had tanked early, and his beloved Eagles had already been knocked out of the playoffs, but hey, it was football. More important than just about anything except money-making mergers.

A lone bell chimed the one o'clock hour.

A new day, a new week, a new person working in his mother's beloved store. As he climbed into his car, he realized it felt wrong to be starting out something so new with something so same old, same old, especially a game he didn't care a whole lot about.

Scowling, he put the car into gear, eased into the street,
and headed to Tim's place near the banks of the Schuylkill River. He'd put in plenty of late nights this past week, nailed a lucrative takeover of a faltering fossil energy business, and had a significant promotion on the line. There was nothing wrong with taking an afternoon off to watch football with the guys.

Nothing at all.

Don't go. Stay here and show me around. We can talk about dresses and bridal and walks in the park and faith and babies and why Billy Joel songs are still the best.

He left, of course.

Tara watched as he turned and headed south outside the door. She had to keep herself from chasing him down. Grabbing his hand. Gazing up into those deep, brown eyes and drawing him back inside.

She needed to get a grip. Her goal here was to learn as much about Elena's Bridal as she could. She took a deep breath, tugged her sweater closer, and studied the store from records to rooms, gauging what worked and what didn't.

By three forty-five Tara had done all she could. She texted Greg not to worry about her, closed up the store and set the alarm, and started home, thinking. The information she'd gleaned concerned her.

Maria Elena had a brilliant eye for gowns and placement, but when it came to social media and Internet presence, she'd crashed. The sales numbers for the past eighteen months had gone into a slow freefall as a result.

Tara had a love/hate relationship with numbers. She loved their objective ease, but when they added up to a serious downward trend like she saw at Elena's Bridal, she disliked them immensely. Was this the end of independent bridal salons? Had corporate-owned chains pushed everyone to big-box settings?

The rain and sleet had stopped, but the temperatures were dropping fast. She pulled her coat closer around her and walked a little faster.

A car pulled up alongside her. It wasn't dark yet, but the heavy cloud cover, coupled with the shortened days of mid-January, made it dusky. A woman alone needed to be careful. She averted her gaze and sped up even more, ready to duck into a still-open drugstore just ahead.

“Tara? Why are you walking home?”

Her heart did a quick tumble when Greg called her name, one of those crazy things that shouldn't and couldn't happen because Greg was her boss and a ladder-climbing lawyer. “You're supposed to be watching football.”

He double-parked the car, got out, and met her on the sidewalk. “It's freezing out here.”

“Walking warms you up.” She said it with a bravado her chilled limbs didn't feel.

“Really?” His look said he wasn't buying it. “Get in, the car's warm. I'll drive you.”

“No, Greg, really, I'm fine.”

He made a doubtful face, took her arm, and led her across the quiet street. “Warm is better. I promise.”

Warm was better. It was so much better that she could have done a little happy dance as the blast of hot air from the
car heater enveloped her. She held back on the dance, but just barely.

“I went to the store and you were gone. I thought we had this all arranged.”

“I texted you.” She indicated the cell phone sitting between them. “Didn't you get it?”

He picked up the phone, opened it, and grimaced. “I did, but didn't realize it. Sorry.”

“I decided there was no reason to interrupt your one day off with driving across the city just to make sure I locked up. It seemed wrong to interrupt a guy and his football.” She kept her gaze on the street ahead, because making eye contact with Greg made it tough to maintain a keep-your-distance mindset. “Besides, walking makes me hearty. It refreshes the soul.”

Her sensible reasoning would have been great if Greg had been able to focus on football.

He hadn't.

He'd spent the afternoon wondering how she was doing. Did she need help? Did she have questions? And then the one thing she did text him about, he hadn't noticed. “I appreciate your consideration, but you've gone above and beyond trying to school yourself in a job where there's no one around to train you. I feel bad about that.”

She raised her backpack and pulled out a bridal magazine. “I've been schooling myself for years.”

He laughed. “That anxious to get married?” He was slightly disappointed when she shook her head.

“No, that will happen in God's time. It's the planning I love. The structure, the helpful side of making things right. Cutting costs, trimming ribbon, planning seating. I love the logistics of weddings. My own?” She shrugged. “That will take care of itself, but being of service to others to make this special day memorable and stress-free? That's my natural high.”

“Then why law school?” At the red light he stopped and turned toward her, puzzled. “If you love the wedding industry, why put yourself through the rigors of that?”

“My dad.”

“Ah.” Greg nodded, thinking he understood. “Family law practice. I get it, a lot of my pals went into law for that reason.”

“My dad wasn't a lawyer.”

“No?”

She shook her head, and for the first time since meeting her yesterday, he sensed trouble. “He was a laborer. He was disabled in a work-site accident twenty years ago. Back then, it was tougher to prove fault and disabilities.”

Before the laws shifted gears. She was right.

“An attorney said he'd represent him, the company involved paid off the lawyer so he'd do a lousy job, my dad never got the benefits he needed, and we lost him to suicide four years later.”

“He killed himself?” Greg covered her hand with his, unable to imagine the sadness of that scenario, but able to read the reality in Tara's shadowed eyes. “Tara, I'm so sorry.”

“Us too. We'd prayed hard and long for him to get better, but in the end it wasn't enough.”

“Because God didn't save him?” That would have ticked Greg off, but Tara's quick shake of the head disagreed.

“Dad was angry about everything, and mental health services were expensive so he wouldn't go for help. He didn't want to go to church with us, or be around happy people. He avoided everything we considered nice and normal, so it's hard to blame God when my dad refused to even try to meet him halfway. I don't think God forces his way into our hearts and souls.”

She paused, thoughtful. “I think we invite him in, and my father was angry for so long that I think he forgot how to be happy. I decided I'd become an amazing lawyer. Strong. Smart. Dedicated. And when I say I'll help people, I'll do it. No matter what.”

Her words hit home. Had Greg ever considered the fallout of his legal actions? The innocent people who were affected by the firm's wheeling and dealing? Did his initiatives leave other children out in the cold, scrabbling to get by? Probably. Could he afford to get sentimental over work? No. Degrees of separation were crucial in corporate law. Business was business.

Perfect!
his conscience scoffed.
Your father would be proud. So proud.

“We survived,” Tara went on. “My mom is a wonderful person. She works two jobs, and she's always been there for me and my younger brother. We're the first to make it through college, much less law school. So my success is really her success.”

Greg felt the same way about his own mother. She had groomed him for victory, but right now he didn't feel all that
victorious. A part of him felt like a little boy lost, wondering how to get home. A crazy thought, when he was on the cusp of something big. “My mom was like that too. They would have liked each other.”

She nodded, started to say something, then stopped. He helped. “What's on your mind? I can tell you've got something to say and you're not sure if it's your place to do it.”

She hesitated, still frowning. “I do, but it might take a little while.”

“Food?”

She waved him off and looked embarrassed. “I wasn't hinting for supper, Greg.”

“Well, I was.” He made a quick left, then a right. “Tim had chicken wings, but I need something more substantial.”

“But there's another game.”

He didn't care.

That realization should have unnerved him. It didn't, because the prospect of spending time with Tara seemed better than a game. “Mexican?”

“Love it more than life itself.”

He grinned at her enthusiasm and pulled into a parking space down the road from a great little Tex-Mex place that looked like a dive but had the best food around. He rounded the car just in time to open her door.

She looked up, surprised and pleased. “Thank you.”

She smiled, and what he wanted to do was take her hand. Hold it. Walk with her hand clasped in his, just to see if last night's reaction was a fluke.

He didn't.

She was leaving for the valleys of northern Pennsylvania.
He was destined for New York City. No sense starting something with so little time.

When the counter clerk served up their food on a burnt-orange plastic tray, he wondered if he should have taken Tara to a more upscale place. She was country at heart, but didn't a woman like Tara deserve the best?

“Oh, be still, my wedding-loving heart.” She laughed when he brought the pile of food over to the table.

“You set the table.” He glanced at the paper napkins and plastic silverware. “Well done.”

“Doing my part.” She smiled at him, then at a young couple's baby across the aisle.

The little boy promptly burst into tears—loud, yowling tears that forced his mother to get up and walk the little guy around.

“Your cheeks are red.”

“I've just scared a baby, and I'm about to tell you that your bridal store needs help. And I'm not talking about another clerk on hand. Of course my face is red.”

“The books have us in the black.” He raised his shoulders. “And whether or not we keep it open, the black is a good place to be.”

“Should I disagree now and risk the removal of my food, or wait until I've eaten?” She stared at the food with longing, as if assessing the possibilities.

“All right. Eat and talk. Your food is safe.”

“Elena's is one-of-a-kind, purposely.”

He nodded. His mother had seen the value of the Old City shop at a time when the historic area of Philadelphia had fallen on hard times. She'd put together the payments to
buy the store with the cool cash settlement Carlos paid out when he ended their marriage. From a dream broken came a dream fulfilled, which made closing the store harder than he ever imagined.

“But . . .” She elongated the word with purpose. “It has no Internet presence, no Facebook page, no social media interaction at all, so it's become fairly invisible.”

“People spend way too much time on their computers and phones,” he grumbled. But hadn't he told his mother the very same thing last year?